30
claire
I’m weaving through the late-afternoon traffic, trying to make it home before the kids are dropped off by their respective carpools. The thumping starts as I’m mentally reviewing my to-do list and thinking about what to make for dinner. I quickly look in the rearview mirror to make sure I haven’t run over something, but the pavement is clear and it takes only a few additional seconds before my brain processes that the thumping is coming from one of my tires. I pull off onto the shoulder and turn on my hazard lights, then reach for my cell phone, hoping that Elisa will answer. She picks up on the fourth ring and I exhale.
“Hi, Claire,” she says. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a flat tire,” I say. “Josh and Jordan will be home in twenty minutes. Can you meet them and take them to your house?”
“Sure, no problem. What are you going to do about the tire?”
“I don’t know yet.” In the past I’d called AAA, but that was one of the things I canceled when I was going through our expenses, eliminating everything I thought we could live without, no matter how little it cost. When I told Chris he was livid. “What if you and the kids get stuck on the side of the road? Jesus, Claire. I don’t think AAA is going to break the bank.” I give silent thanks that the kids aren’t with me and mentally reprimand myself; we really didn’t save that much by dropping the service, and perhaps I was a bit militant in my efforts to save us from financial ruin.
“Skip will be back in an hour,” Elisa says. “I can send him.”
“Thanks, but I’ll try my dad first.” I call my parents but the phone rings and rings. They should be sitting in the kitchen eating dinner, within arm’s reach of the phone that hangs on the wall, because they are, if nothing else, creatures of habit and five thirty is dinnertime in their household. It always has been. I’d call their cell phones, but they both keep them in their glove boxes, turned off. They have no time for such gadgets, except in an emergency, and the only reason they agreed to them at all was because I insisted. My frustration and anger at myself grows.
I don’t want to try to change the tire myself. My inner feminist chafes, but the truth is that dusk is fast approaching and my skills are rudimentary at best. I know how to change a tire, of course, know the basics of how to work the jack and remove the lug nuts. But my fear is that knowing how and executing the job successfully are two very different things. The cars whiz by outside my window; I’m probably not pulled over far enough for this to be remotely safe. I call the toll-free number on my insurance card, but the person I speak with informs me that I have to call my own tow truck and then submit a claim to be reimbursed for the cost. Using the Internet browser on my phone, I search for a nearby service station, but when I call, the man who answers says that their truck is already out assisting another motorist. They can send someone but they can’t tell me how long it will be. I hang up and think about searching for another service station but then an idea pops into my head. It’s been a little more than a week since I turned down his offer to go for a ride, and if I call him it’s as good as admitting that I do want to see him again. I’ll be opening a door that I told myself I’d be better off keeping closed.
I know I should keep it closed.
But I’m not so sure I want to keep it closed.
I scroll through my phone until I find his number, crossing my fingers that he’s off duty.
He answers right away, sounding surprised. “Claire?” So either he recognizes my number or he’s saved my contact information in his phone.
“Hi. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a flat tire. Chris is out of town and I can’t get a hold of my dad. The service station I called said they didn’t know how long it would be before they can send someone.”
“Where are you?” I give him my location.
“Stay in the car,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
He pulls in behind me fifteen minutes later, and I get out of the car and walk toward him. He’s dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and he’s wearing a beat-up baseball cap. He looks rugged, like the kind of man who could change a flat tire with ease. He’s smiling at me but his smile fades when he says, “This is not a safe situation for you to be in.”
“I have my phone,” I say, holding it up.
“You should have a towing service,” he says, gently chastising me.
“I did,” I admit. “I’ll call tomorrow and renew.”
The flat tire is on the driver’s side and Daniel glances at the swiftly moving traffic. “Pull over a little farther, okay?”
“Okay.” I get back in the car and pull over as far as I can. When I park and get out Daniel says, “Go sit in my car.”
“You don’t want me to help you?” I ask as he opens the back of my vehicle and starts rooting around for the jack.
“No, I’ve got it.”
Daniel drives a sporty black two-door Toyota. Wildly impractical compared to my kid-hauling SUV or Chris’s roomy Lexus sedan, but Daniel apparently doesn’t need space for booster seats, sports equipment, and all the other paraphernalia children require. Unlike my vehicle, littered with empty juice boxes and smelling faintly of McDonald’s French fries, his spotless interior smells like leather and citrus.
I settle into the passenger seat and text Elisa. Police changing tire. Home soon. Thank you.
She texts back right away. Kids are playing with Travis. I’ll feed them dinner. Take your time.
Fifteen minutes later Daniel opens the driver’s-side door and gets in, wiping his hands on his jeans. A smudge of grease remains on his thumb and I stare at it, transfixed. “Are you cold?” he asks. The daytime temperatures are still in the high seventies, but once the sun starts to go down it gets chilly fast.
“Just a little.” Daniel starts the car and turns the heat on low. He reaches over and hits the button for my seat warmer. “Thanks again,” I say. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”
“You weren’t,” he says, smiling at me.
I smile, too. “I seem to always be asking for your help.”
“Don’t worry about it, Claire,” he says. “It’s not like you’ve asked for one of my kidneys.” He grins and we both laugh.
“Maybe I’ll ask for one of those next,” I say. It takes all the willpower I have not to reach out and touch him. I tell myself it’s a physical manifestation of my gratitude, but that’s utter crap. I’m drawn to him, pure and simple, and I’d have to be pretty unobservant not to notice that my presence seems to be doing something to him, too. It’s the way he looks at me, the warm tone of his voice, not to mention the classic knight-in-shining-armor scenario that’s just been played out. I think for a moment what it would be like to trail my fingers along his jaw and feel the stubble there, and instantly feel ashamed. I have never had so much as a thought about anyone other than Chris. It’s heady stuff, but I come to my senses and pull back.
What I’m about to say next will feel awkward, but I take a deep breath and proceed anyway. “The other day, when you left a message about going for a ride? I wanted to go. I only said no because I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”
“Okay,” he says, slowly, turning toward me. His tone tells me he’s not one hundred percent sure where I’m going with this.
“I don’t know what you’re looking for.” I hesitate and he looks at me as if he’s trying to decipher my meaning, which is probably difficult because I’m not being very clear. “I can’t read you,” I finally blurt.
“I know you’re married, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says.
“Not worried,” I say. “Just curious.”
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
“Why did you ask me to go on that motorcycle ride? The first time, I mean.”
He shrugs slightly, looking pensive. “I thought you might say yes. You seemed lonely.”
“Am I transmitting?”
“What?” he asks, clearly confused by my question.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“Why did you say yes?” he asks.
“Because I am lonely.” It’s almost fully dark, which makes this conversation slightly less uncomfortable. I can still see his face, in the weak glow of the dashboard light, but it’s easier somehow with nightfall all around us. “But I’m not looking for anything other than friendship.”
“You seem really nice, Claire. I thought we hit it off and that you might like getting together again sometime. But I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“You aren’t. I just needed to know your intentions. Make sure I hadn’t given you the wrong idea.” It seems like such a strange, unnecessary conversation, but it isn’t, really. Deep down I know we need to draw the boundaries if there’s any chance of us spending more time together.
I tell him about Chris losing his job. “Things were pretty bad for a while. He found a new job and now he’s never home. He’s a great dad, he gives everything he has to the kids, but he just…” I look away and shake my head. “He just doesn’t have a lot of time for me right now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay. It’s just the way things are.” I fiddle with the zipper on my jacket. “Have you ever been married?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
He shakes his head. “It just didn’t work out.”
“Any kids?”
An expression I can’t read clouds his features. “No.”
We sit in silence for a minute, but surprisingly it doesn’t feel weird. Finally I say, “I better go pick up the kids. Elisa has them.”
“Okay,” he says.
“I’d like to go for another ride sometime.”
He smiles at me. “Sure. I’ll text you,” he says.
“Thanks again for changing the tire.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good night.”
“You, too.” I get out of Daniel’s car and slide behind the wheel of mine. When the traffic clears I pull away from the shoulder, watching in my rearview mirror as Daniel pulls out after me and heads in the opposite direction.